


Insurgent H-6

by Theyumenoinu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels, Apocalypse, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Charlie Bradbury, BAMF Dean Winchester, Captivity, Demons, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Forced Combat, Humans, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Purgatory, Survival, Tournaments, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28085049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyumenoinu/pseuds/Theyumenoinu
Summary: “And what’ll happen if I don’t follow these rules?” Dean ventures, squinting against the fractional change in lighting.“Then,” the reaper starts, gravely. “You and your nearest of kin will cease to exist.”---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------To prevent the Apocalypse and the demise of all, the Fates collaborated with Death to create a tournament. Allowing angels, demons, and humans an equal opportunity to gain power and control over the Earth every 20 years.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	Insurgent H-6

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters.
> 
> Updates: Sporadically

**Insurgent H-6**

* * *

**Chapter One**

“You have five minutes.”

Dean inclines his head a fraction in acknowledgment, reaching for the offered cellular device in the reaper’s outstretched, leather-gloved hand. And is grateful when there’s no protest to return it, even after abruptly turning his back to gain some semblance of privacy.

Eagerly, Dean dials the number from memory, his heart rate spiking as he raises the cellphone to his ear. Hoping with every fiber of his being that someone’s home to receive the call.

“Is that you, Dean?” comes Sam’s winded voice the moment the line clicks. Not allowing Dean a chance to answer as he spouts questions in rapid-fire: “Are you okay? What’s going on? Are they letting you go?”

He attempts to speak, but a distant _bang_ of a door slamming, followed by a gruff, “That him?” curtails him once more. Bobby’s presence adding even more weight to this moment.

 _No, I’m not okay,_ Dean thinks somberly. _Not since I woke up with this damn thing on my hand._ Even now, the incessant itch starts again, creeping outwards from the reaper’s black spot upon his palm. And it takes tremendous power of will for him to quell the ever-intensifying urge to scratch at it until his skin peels away.

“It’s fine,” Dean strives to alleviate some of Sam’s anxiety, aware the truth will only incite Sam to act risky in the name of family. “Everything’s going to be okay, Sammy.”

An uncomfortable pause stretches seemingly for eons, and Dean’s nearly certain he’s lost signal before his brother decides to speak again. Only, this time, with a notable waver to his voice, evidently on the verge of tears. “Right. You always are. Yeah, you—you’ll be okay.”

Dean shakes his head wordlessly in disagreement, his silence allowing his brother this glimmer of hope rather than the alternative.

The odds of his return, he knows, are slim to none.

“You will be,” Sam repeats with conviction, endeavoring to convince himself more so than Dean. “I have faith in you.”

“Yeah.” He fights to swallow past a large lump forming in his throat. “I know you do.”

“Thirty seconds,” the deep voice startles him. And Dean barely manages to squash the urge to deck the reaper for the interruption.

Dean clasps the amulet Sam gifted him prior to his reluctant trip to Nowhere, Purgatory. The only tangible reminder he possesses of the life left behind.

“Sammy,” he starts, mildly impressed by his ability to maintain an even tone, given the circumstances. “I just… Baby’s all yours if I… I mean, promise me you’ll take good care of her. So help me, Sammy, if you mistreat her—”

“She’ll still be here when you get back,” Sam’s quick to dismiss. “And I’ll be here, too.” A beat passes, then, “Bobby and I won’t miss a viewing. We’ll, you know, try to help you as best as we can from here.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s head droops in defeat, his breath catching as he mutters, “Just make sure to take care of yourself first. You hear me?”

He misses Sam’s reply when the phone’s unceremoniously yanked from his hand. The lack of closure splintering his entire world.

“Time’s up,” the reaper informs without inflection. Remaining unfazed by the glower Dean’s directing at him. “Now, proceed to the door, H-6.” 

Dean bristles at the command, his hands curling into fists as he stares down the aforementioned hunk of metal several feet down the corridor. The dimly lit walls seeming to creep inwards the longer he stands there, threatening to crush. 

“H-6,” the reaper barks impatiently, banging his scythe against the wall to regain Dean’s attention. “Comply.”

“Give me a damn minute!” Dean snaps, wrestling to breathe past the panic clawing through his chest. Refusing to admit to either the reaper or himself that he’s actually frozen in fear rather than just stubbornly defying orders.

“If you don’t move in the next three seconds—”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going!” he bites back, relieved to regain his temper. “No need to be so damn pushy. Don’t I deserve to go out with a little dignity?”

The reaper conveys the importance of that by way of a forceful shove, which sends Dean wildly stumbling forwards. Cursing under his breath as the bastard crowds unnervingly close behind him—sustaining his silent threat to keep moving.

“Aren’t reapers supposed to console those marked by Death?” Dean starts peevishly, sparing a glance over his shoulder at the reaper while he grudgingly obliges. His pulse drumming against his ears as the distance between them and the door diminishes rapidly beneath the hard soles of his boots.

“You’ve been prepared and have spoken to a loved one,” the reaper states, heavily implying Dean’s apparent ungratefulness.

Dean huffs cynically. “Yeah, that’s _real nice_ of you. Make sure to add that to the brochure. I’m sure thousands would be begging to be the next sacrificial lamb if they knew how _humanely_ they’ll be treated.”

The reaper, predictably, doesn’t respond to the bait and continues to shepherd him apathetically down the corridor. By the time they reach the threshold, Dean’s a mess of nerves. Tremors wrack his body and his palms sweat profusely, despite his attempts to rub them dry. Finding himself unable to bridal the fear over his potential, gruesome demise.

Having obtained enough knowledge from the recording of the last tournament, it’s safe to venture that nothing remotely good is about to transpire in the arena. Yet, sadly, the information still leaves him woefully unprepared for what’s to come. Even considering the practice he’s had from countless brawls, bar fights, and sparring matches with Sam, none of it adds up to the severity of _this_.

No, this is far beyond anything he’s ever experienced. And the possibility of succumbing to death or losing the last shreds of his humanity in the unlikely event he makes it out alive is nothing short of a daunting prospect.

 _I have to survive_ , he decides, eyeing the three bulbs aligned over the doorframe. Particularly, the middle one emitting a soft, yellow glow. _Need to win for Sam, no matter the cost._

“H-6 ready for entry,” the reaper says to no one in particular, maneuvering to stand beside Dean. A hand gently unexpectedly settling onto his shoulder.

Dean can’t be sure if it’s meant to be supportive or merely a deterrent from fleeing, but Dean oddly finds comfort in the contact. Allowing it to ground and steady him for the impending battle.

The clang of the door unbolting reverberates loudly in the silence as the bulbs simultaneously switch to green. Its hinges squealing and groaning when it commences swinging inwards, spilling a dull light across the dark expanse of the hallway. A sharp gasp escaping him as frigid air assaults him a moment later, sending a chill racing down his back as it slices mercilessly through the meager protective layer of his hoodie.

Nudging Dean forward, the reaper rambles off the instructions. “Follow the path and find your assigned pad. Do not engage in combat with the other contenders until the horn has sounded. Is that understood?”

“And what’ll happen if I don’t follow these rules?” Dean ventures, squinting against the fractional change in lighting. 

“Then,” the reaper starts, gravely. “You and your nearest of kin will cease to exist.”

~*~

“Fuck the cold,” Dean gripes under his breath, dipping his head against the tempest wind. A wall of flurries and sleet obstructing his vision as he treks farther along, carving a path through ankle-deep snow and rugged terrain. Cursing the Fates and Death for this so-called “preventative measure of the Apocalypse” when the toe of his boot catches a jutting of rock, forcing him off-balance and acquainting him with the nearest snowdrift.

A noticeable gloom overlays the perpetual grey as the sky overhead darkens with new intensity. Storm clouds sweeping and curling angrily, foretelling the worst is yet to come.

 _Shit, I’m going to freeze to death before it even begins,_ Dean muses bitterly, scrambling to his feet. Feebly attempting to combat the chill seeping deep into the material of his clothes, he wraps his arms tightly over his snow-coated chest. His exposed face and hands burning with cold and the awareness of his toes now a distant memory.

An indeterminate amount of time passes as he grudgingly carries on. Weaving through countless trees until he reaches the edge of a meadow, the range of snowcapped mountain peaks looming in the distance. The sight breathtaking, if not for the stark reminder of the contenders who’ve congregated in the center of the field—facing each other in a triangular pattern comprising of three rows of six, one spot remaining empty.

Sighing in resignation, Dean trudges onwards, thankful for the respite from the bitter wind as the blizzard conditions mercifully abate the minute he steps into the field. Trudging tiredly on until he’s able to distinguish the beings for himself. Remarking each one’s appearance, and surprised to find their conduct mirroring those of their kind on the recording.

Those poised in an intimidating display while unfazed by the arctic-type weather could be none other than the angels. And if it weren’t for their unfaltering stoicism, Dean would’ve had a bitch of time telling them apart from the demons. Given the fact, it’s the first time anyone’s seen them out of their celestial armor and in what looks to be business casual. As if planning to attend some big board meeting as soon as the killing spree’s concluded. The image so absurd that ducks his head to cough a laugh into the stiff collar of his hoodie.

The humans are the most obvious as they maintain constant motion. Their faces tinted various shades of pink, also half-frozen in their inadequate winter wear. Whereas the demons stand nearly as erect as the angels and watch their opponents hungrily. Pride evident by the air of superiority and dark attire they’re cloaked in. Outwardly reflecting their smug satisfaction from these last two decades of inflicting chaos and pain unto the world. 

It leaves Dean with the impression he’s unevenly matched.

“Such a pretty boy,” someone purrs as he breaches the perimeter, eliciting him to whip around in search of the creep. His skin prickling as his eyes lock on her own before observing her tongue dart out to seductively lick cherry-red stained lips. Mild horror engulfing his disgust when her eyes ink over black, contrasting the fiery red of her hair which spills in loose curls over the dips in her shoulders. “You look a little cold there, _sweetheart_. Come here, so I can warm you up.”

Dean grimaces, then juts out his chin in a semblance of bravado as he retorts, “Bite me.”

“Gladly.” A wolfish grin etches across her face. “I bet you taste _exquisite_ ,” she says with fervor and bites her bottom lip with enough force to break the skin; allowing a trickle of blood to trail beneath her chin.

He stiffens at the equivocal threat. Feeling vaguely nauseous, he smartly turns away and head for his respective pad on the opposite side. The haunting echo of maniacal laughter chasing after him and setting his teeth on edge.

The raised platform embedded with “H-6” ironically sits snugly in-between another human, who’s currently working up a sweat with a tireless string of jumping jacks. And a demon with a conspicuous receding hairline, now giving Dean the once-over at his approach that Dean blatantly ignores in favor of his human ally.

She continues the punishing exercise for another minute, then slumps over to catch her breath with hands on her hips. Her cheeks flamed pink from the exertion.

“It’s colder than Hoth out here,” Dean jests, clambering onto his own pad spaced roughly six feet apart.

She emits a wheezing laugh before gifting him an amused look. “I’m not gutting a tauntaun for you, Skywalker.”

He attempts a chuckle but instead emits a violent cough as his lungs protest the icy air. “Dean Winchester,” he introduces.

“Charlie Bradbury.” Offering him an air handshake, she says, “Or if you prefer, you could call me Number One.”

“I’d rather be Kirk than Picard,” Dean argues, easily catching the reference with fake outrage. His simmering anger saved for the powers that be reducing him to some number identifier. “You actually like being labeled as H-1?”

Charlie shrugs noncommittally, then pinwheels her arms to reinitiate blood flow. “It has a nice ring to it and makes me feel like I’m on some sort of top-secret mission.”

At Dean’s visible bemusement, she explains, “I’m a Larper.” She shrugs, again. “It’s a lifestyle. And right now, it’s pretty much the only thing keeping me from losing it.”

“Got it.” He can appreciate the need to detach from their hopeless situation. Hell, Dean considers, he might even be a little jealous.

“But you seem to be holding it together pretty well,” Charlie observes, cutting him from his reserved musings. He grunts in half-hearted agreement as he stamps his feet with hope to jolt some life back into them.

“Even after your… _pleasant_ interaction,” she adds as an afterthought, offering him a look of commiseration.

“Oh, yeah,” he huffs, shooting a disdainful glare in said demon’s direction. One that hasn’t, apparently, ceased eyeing him like a fresh piece of meat. “She’s a real peach.”

“Her name is Abaddon,” a thickly accented voice chimes in, and he whirls to regard the demon on his other side. 

“Excuse me?” 

“What?” The demon questions, feigning offense. “Because I’m not _human_ , we can’t be allies?”

“Actually, that’s exactly what it means,” Dean retorts hotly. “In the end, only one species can be named winner—”

“I’m not saying I _won’t_ eventually kill you.” The demon finally shifts to meet Dean’s gaze fully. “I’m just merely propositioning a deal that’ll prove beneficial for the both of us. A little tit-for-tat, if you will.”

Dean licks at his dried lips with incredulity. “And I’m supposed to trust you? Just like that?”

“Of course not! Lord, are you daft?” He snaps, waving his arms in exasperation. “Listen, you need me to inform you whenever an ambush is conspired, and I need you to neutralize some mutual foes. It’s a win-win. You know, the whole I’ll scratch your back and you mine partnership.”

“And who says I need you for that?” Dean scoffs.

Dark eyes narrow, but the demon concedes the point. “Fine. Do what you want. Although…” He once more faces the opposing side, crossing his arms nonchalantly over his chest. “I probably shouldn’t mention that while you’ve been preoccupied with Sugar Lips over there, you’ve become the target of something a bit more… _significant_.”

“What do you—?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Charlie urgently interjects, gesturing with a curt nod of her head once she gains his attention. “Over there.”

Following her line of sight, he spots the being in question fairly quickly—an angel. Despite the distance, he discerns how the angel’s eyes are ablaze with azure fire and fixed squarely upon him. The inscrutably intense stare raising the hairs at the nape of his neck.

_He hacks violently as smoke fills the room. Pinned by intangible restraints to the wall as the flames inch closer._

_A hand suddenly covering his small shoulder, solid and reassuring. Eyes of sapphire piercing the haze—_

He gasps, wrenching back to reality. Finding he’s stumbled backward a few steps with the heels of his Doc Martens hanging precariously over the edge of the pad. Disoriented, his mind rushes to catch up to the last few moments; the fragment of memory fading into the frozen scene before him.

 _What the hell was that?_ he wonders.

“Want some life-saving advice?” The demon’s voice feathers into his ear just as a mountain of blankets, assorted weaponry, and survival kits materialize from virtually nowhere. Scattered about in the unoccupied space before them.

“What?” Charlie beats him to it.

“Grab what’s closest at your feet, then get away from _that_ ,” he subtly nods in direction of the angel, “as far as you can.”

Dean snorts, mistrustful. “Yeah, and what about a weapon?”

“The ones here will buy you a bit of time, at best. It’ll be nothing more than a scratch if you’re lucky to land a hit,” the demon answers, scarcely loud enough for them to hear. “You’re better off finding the hidden gems before any of us do. Now those will make a grown immortal weep.”

“And until then, do what?” Dean hisses.

“Dean,” Charlie starts, her face pinched with fear. “Maybe we should listen to him.”

The counterargument on the tip of his tongue dies with the condemning blare of a horn, rumbling over the treetops. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments feed my muse and are appreciated.


End file.
